


Meeting the Last Time for the First Time

by IOU_Superglue



Category: Original Work
Genre: Accidental Death, Alley Sex, Death, Feeding, Jack the Ripper - Freeform, Lazy Tagging, London, M/M, Prostitution, Thralls, Vampire Sex, Vampires, alleys, charater death, the smut seemed okay at 2 am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:31:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IOU_Superglue/pseuds/IOU_Superglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He notices him walking down the street:  it isn’t hard to do. He stands out, after all, even among the mix of bored, disillusioned faces, and the delightfully droll, cheerful ones. Rich, dark hair, pale skin, and piercing green eyes, flawless bone structure and slender: prettier than all the girls and so very young. </p>
<p>He would have liked it to end another way, but there are some things fate just takes away from you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting the Last Time for the First Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_Little_Bit_Broken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Little_Bit_Broken/gifts).



> This was meant to be short and fluffy but no, it smutty pretty quickly.

He notices him walking down the street:  it isn’t hard to do. He stands out, after all, even among the mix of bored, disillusioned faces, and the delightfully droll, cheerful ones. Rich, dark hair, pale skin, and piercing green eyes, flawless bone structure and slender: prettier than all the girls and so very young. He can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen, if even that, but the way he dresses says (high boots, _scandalously_   short pants, a plain vest over a large button-up shirt with the arms rolled up, short hair tied in an even shorter ponytail) says that he may be young, but he is by no means innocent.

And he smells _delectable_.

AB negative isn’t something Ghede comes by every day, especially not on days when he’s hungry, days when he can barely walk throughout the streets of London without jumping half of these humans, and this boy is practically _asking_ for it, showing so much skin, leaving his neck exposed like that, so conscience be damned, he’s indulging.

The boy is accompanied by a man that can’t possibly be much older him, maybe twenty four or twenty five at tops, though Ghede would be unsurprised if he found out that this male was younger –nothing in this city amazes him anymore, not after that mob when the first top hat was introduced. It’s ironic really, he notices while trailing behind them: the older male is a police officer, or judging by his less conspicuous clothing, a detective of some sort and here he is, walking a prostitute home.

A beautiful prostitute, but nevertheless, a prostitute.

A very tempting prostitute with blood that smells like heaven, blood that calls out to him, blood that is just _begging_ to be tasted.

He watches as they progress down the streets, seeing as the peope thin out and thin out as the sun grows nearer to the horizon: he follows close enough behind them as to not lose sight but far enough away as to not appear suspicious in anyway. The boy shivers, and the policeman takes off his coat and puts it on his shoulders. It’s too big for him, and wants to fall off every few steps, so the officer shrugs and wraps an arm around the boy’s shoulders, half in a somewhat protective gesture (almost as if he knows Ghede is there, and maybe he does: Ghede wouldn’t put it past this man whose blood smells strange,) and half to keep the young man warm, to keep the jacket firmly on his shoulders.

Their stroll carries on for some time, and by the time they stop the boy has his head leaned against the man’s shoulder and an arm wrapped around his waist, put there almost casually, and it does look sort of casual, sort of innocent (for a prostitute anyways) Ghede surmises.

Ghede can see when they stop, and the officer takes his hand and pulls him up a short few stairs, and then they are standing at a door, the boy’s slim hands in the officer’s tanned and calloused ones. The taller of the two, the older man says something and the boy smiles, and lets his hands go. He moves to take off the coat but the man stops him with a hand on his shoulder, tells him not to worry about it, and kisses his cheek in an utterly chaste way, just to the right of the corner of his lips.

He watches the boy blush, and Ghede licks his lips in anticipation.

“Be careful,” the officer says again, and the youth says something else in response that Ghede cannot hear, before standing up on his tip-toes and kissing the man’s forehead. The officer heads inside with a grin on his face, and the boy turns around, looking utterly… well, Ghede doesn’t know what the word is, but there is a look of joy and excitement on his face that now words can convey.

Ghede is daring now, and strides over to the boy in what seems to be a casual way, managing to control the voice in his head that’s just telling him to jump the boy and take what he needs. He raises his eyebrows for a brief moment, before giving the boy a (seeming) once-over grabbing his wrist and stroking his fingers along it gently, travelling up his forearm as to invite him somewhere magical.

And in an instant, Ghede has him captured in a purely metaphorical sense. The boy only gives a knowingly seductive smile (more like a smirk) and allows himself to be pulled the wrist into an alleyway.

“My name is Safford,” the boy breathes, his fingers travelling up Ghede’s arms. He’s standing close, so close that Ghede can hear the blood rushing through his veins calling to him.

“Safford?” the older male breathes. Unique name, unique person.

“Safford Creswell.” The boy reassures.

“Safford.” The name rolls off his tongue.

“Say it again and I’ll charge you ten quid for getting off on it,” the boy winks, before dragging Ghede by the cuff of his shirt over to the wall, pressing his body close against Ghede’s and Ghede’s back to the wall. This is the boy’s first mistake, not that he knows it, but quickly his innocent demeanor is replaced and he begins undoing Ghede’s tie. “I’m forty for full-on, twenty-five for a blow and some fingers, fifteen for a rut, and ten for a handjob.” He presses a kiss to the lobe of Ghede’s ear, “but snogs are free for handsome men like yourself.” He practically purrs, before softly rolling his hips against Ghede’s, not that the man needs any extra incentive, because the main purpose of this was _food, sustenance, the stuff he needs to live_ , but if he’s going to indulge, best to do it properly, go all-out.

He guides Safford’s hands and nimble fingers to his back pocket, where he keeps his money, folded and sometimes wadded up. He guides Safford’s hand in, wraps his fingers around the sum, and guides it to the other male’s own front pockets. Safford glances down at the money in his hand and his hand wrapped in Ghede’s, and spots two fifties right off the bat, and there are more bills bundled inside, before arching an eyebrow at him.

Ghede figures it’s the least he can do, after what he intends to do anyways.

“Honey, for that much money you can have me any way you like,” Safford hums, leaning up to Ghede’s ear, “For that many quid I’ll let you do anything you want.” He whispers provocatively.

Ghede really wishes he hadn’t said that.

He leans down and takes Safford’s lips in his own, Safford pushing their bodies closer together, before Ghede turns them changes their position (somehow) to where Safford is backed up against the wall (second mistake,) his mouth open and tongue dueling with Ghede’s own for dominance that it knows it isn’t going to win.

Ghede pulls away after a second to take a breath, the proximity of the boy and the adrenaline in his blood making everything seem move vivid, and instead of going in for more tongue he begins kissing the boy’s face –his cheek, his temple, his jaw line, and nibbles at his earlobe, eliciting a quiet sound from the male, who has his arms looped around Ghede’s form and is holding him close, short nails digging into his shoulders as Ghede forces their pelvises against each other and starts kissing at his neck. He showers Safford’s neck with licks and soft nibbles and sucks on some spots until he’s sure there’s bound to be a red mark showing, and then he pulls away and kisses them again.

He doesn’t actually realize when peppering this boy’s neck with kisses and soft licks turns into precious rubies flowing over his tongue, despite the soft moan and high-pitched whimper the boy lets out when Ghede’s fangs sink into his skin.

Ghede’s jaw tightens, bracing Safford’s neck against his jaw even firmer, his arms moving to cradle Safford’s  body as he weakens into Ghede’s embrace, as that heartbeat –that ever _thump, thump, thumping_ sound –flutters and gets weaker and weaker as each palpitation of the boy’s heart sends a splash of scarlet to his tongue.

There are three ways this can end, Ghede knows: there are no grey areas in between. The first of them is of course, that Ghede could just drain this boy completely dry and be on his merry way, stomach full of blood and appetite sated (for the time being). 

The second outcome is that he can take what he wants and leaves the rest for another time, make him his drudge (because at this point, the hard part of that –the bite– is done) and yes, he would be the most well known vampire in Whitechapel because of his beautiful (tasty) drudge, and yes, he would have the prettiest blood slave in likely all of London (who also happened to have the sweetest, rarest blood in likely all of London) but thralls were risky business, as there was always the chance of something going horribly wrong and the bond not taking and the human dying (humans were weak, Ghede had found out.)

The third outcome is the one that shocks him most, seeing as it comes to his mind very quickly that he could drain this boy very nearly _almost_ completely dry, feed him some of his own (infected) blood and let the fireworks begin. Eternity is lonely after all, and is a very long time, and companionship would put him at ease, especially one with such... talents.

He’s pretty much sold on the second idea when Safford arches his back and turns his head to the side, allowing Ghede to get a better angle, and Safford’s heart is beating dangerously fast and dangerously weak and Ghede wants it, wants to go in for the kill, wants so feel his heart stop, but he forces himself not to, shoves the boy away with firm hands on his chest.

Predictably, Safford falls to the ground, too weak and reflexes too slowed to do anything other than half-heartedly try and catch himself (which sort of just equates to stumbling and falling against the wall, knees too wobbly to even stand, before he sinks down to stone ground of the alleyway, his eyes unfocused and his mind in a haze.) Ghede is familiar with the look: one has many drudges when one has been around for as long as Ghede has been around for, and they all get that look shortly after feeding. The lightheadedness is something that’s sort of a given, but most of the slaves he has had agree that there is some special type of fog that seems to wrap itself around their brains after he’s finished feeding.

Safford opens his mouth to ask what happened, but Ghede tells him to hush up and the green eyed male’s mouth snaps shut almost immediately.

Oh. So the bite did work. Delightful.

“Come with me,” he says, turning his back, knowing that this boy has no choice but to follow; he is proven correct when he hears the clumsy footsteps following behind him.

They walk down alleyway after alleyway, Safford just a step behind Ghede, absolutely magnetized and stuck in the older male’s command, until they are in a very secluded, likely dangerous, very dark passageway. “There,” he says, gesturing towards a space between a large rubbish bin and the alley wall.

Ghede takes him on the officer’s trench coat. It takes but a command before the boy is stripping down, and though Ghede can say that yes, he was the one who suggested it in the first place and yes, Safford _literally_ cannot refuse him, the green eyed male looks like he doesn’t mind, not if the bulge in his pants is anything to go by. He orders the boy down, watching as he lays himself out, before he ever even begins unbuttoning his vest.

Ghede kisses and caresses and pulls and draws almost embarrassingly loud sounds from the boy, sounds that only whores would make, but then he reminds himself that he is a whore for a living, this is what he _does_. He draws his tongue down the boy’s inseam, placing kisses, carefully (slowly) moving to the spot between his legs. He’s right at the inseam and Safford is trembling below him when he turns his head, leaves another kiss before giving a gentle nip, his fangs threatening to pop out, just to give him an idea of what comes later, after. He slides back up Safford’s body, biting at his lip hard enough for blood to slip out, he suckles it, and he can feel Safford’s body responding below his, pressing against his in need of friction, pressure, seats himself between the boy’s bare legs.

He lets his fingers wander where they please, finding somewhere interesting to press or prod or stroke, and the boy below him is like soft dough in his hands. He lets his mouth linger near the boy’s neck to rile him up, lets his breath tickle his face and ears, lets his hands travel slowly, slowly down from bony shoulders to smooth back to round cheeks and lets them drift towards the sweet area between them, lets himself slide against and into and touch and finger the spot there that has Safford practically forcing himself on the older male, his head thrown back and a loud moan ripping from him

He doesn’t give much of a warning before he finds himself seated in the youth, surrounded by pulsing warmth, but he waits and bides his time because yes, he realizes that this is a bit fast-paced, and yes, he wants this, and yes, not all people give it their all when it hurts so much, and Ghede definitely wants to see what this boy is made of. Safford however starts squirming beneath him a little, not that long after Ghede has stilled himself, and soon he is slipping in and out of the dark haired youth while he rolls his hips, sending them both higher and higher (along with the cries from Safford’s throat.)

It is merciless and bloody and gets harsher and harsher as Ghede changes angles, finding out what sounds he can entice from this boy, and it seems the boy likes it like that, because when he slams in _just right_ , hitting a spot deep inside him, Safford’s eyes blow wide open, letting Ghede look into those dilated pupils surrounded by lust-filled green irises, and he lets out the dirtiest sound Ghede has ever heard.

He repeats the action a few more times, seeing just how far Safford’s back will bow (as it arches further and further off the ground the faster Ghede gets) before the boy shudders and clenches around him, hole tightening and his legs locking firmly around Ghede’s waist, thick liquid splashing onto his stomach.

The sound Safford makes when his muscles tense up all at once when he is launched over the edge mixed with the newest smell in the air and the way he contracts around Ghede’s shaft is enough to send the older male over the edge, spots erupting before his eyes and a low groan (what could be argued as a growl) escapes him, his own released exploding into the youth below him.

Safford’s eyes practically roll up into his head when this happens, and he somehow finds the strength to press himself back onto Ghede’s throbbing dick, attuned to the movement of the fluid inside him until it settles down and eventually stops.

He pulls out of the boy slowly, almost gingerly. Safford gives a small, weak groan, feeling the liquid trickle down his thighs.

_Well, yes, definitely the right decision_ , Ghede thinks to himself, watching the boy’s chest heave breath after breath after breath, eyes still glazed over in ecstasy.  Ghede smirks, and pats the boy’s calve, before bending to clean off with his tongue, letting it linger there and move and circle until Safford makes a whimpering sound, oversensitive and knows he’ll be aching in the morning. He stops his tongue and its ministrations, at least over the sensitive spot between Safford’s legs. He lets his tongue slide down, down to the boy’s inseam, yet again, and gives his thigh a long, sensual lick before his fangs slide out and dig straight into his femoral artery, jaw clamping down around the curve of his (slim) thigh.

Better he learn now then later; sex is famishing work.

He drinks and drinks, the sweet crimson liquid rolling over his tongue, satisfying his thirst, his hunger, and soon, eventually, his stomach stops growling and clenches, telling him that it’s full.

Ghede gets greedy –is greedy. Safford’s blood tastes so sweet, so luscious, and the other taste that lingers in his mouth only adds to it, so he keeps drinking, keeps ignoring how Safford’s breath is getting shallower and shallower, how his eyes start drooping and how pleas to stop escape his mouth.

He bites down harder, and Safford gives a shout in agony. His fingers twist in Ghede’s hair painfully, turning white with effort, and there is a larger degree of panic in his voice as he begs him to stop. The fingers in Ghede’s hair get weaker and weaker, along with the breathing of the bare male, before it stops altogether, and his fangs retract automatically: when the younger male goes perfectly still,  he realizes all too late what he’s just done.

He does feel bad, really, because Safford would have made an _excellent_ thrall, and judging from the way the night went down (the way he offered himself up –shamelessly,) a nice black swan. Alas, the sweet ones never live, all the more reason that AB negative is so sought after, Ghede thinks.

They find the body the next morning, broken and cold and pale and bloody and oh-so very out of place.

They send the officer that Safford walked home, Ghede remembers him.

The man cries, and there is something wrong about the way he cries: not physically, anyone hearing or seeing would not question the man’s grief, but why he is crying –he shouldn’t be crying, there is something inherently wrong about this situation, because all of Ghede’s senses are telling him that he should not be grieving over this green-eyed boy named Safford.

There is something wrong in his chest, something large, a tug so great that it feels like it’s going to rip his heart in half –he’s broken something here, something important and deep and something that should not be broken, something between this well-build officer and the prostitute from last night –Ghede has to think of him like that, it’s the only thing that chases the guilt away.

Sometimes, fate is cruel. Sometimes, it rips people away simply because the path they are on is not the path they were destined for. Sometimes, it happens without care or discretion, and it happens when it least should. It happens when life should be lived to its fullest with someone else.

-But not Ghede.

It will haunt him for the rest of his life.

His heart is stained with the blood of Safford Creswell.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorrynotsorry

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Repeating Mistakes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068210) by [A_Little_Bit_Broken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Little_Bit_Broken/pseuds/A_Little_Bit_Broken)
  * [They Turned Out the Flame](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069336) by [A_Little_Bit_Broken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Little_Bit_Broken/pseuds/A_Little_Bit_Broken)




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